


Party Girls Don't Get Hurt

by LazBriar



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Drugs, Gen, Hazbin Hotel - Freeform, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 12:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18940831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LazBriar/pseuds/LazBriar
Summary: Angel Dust overdoses, and you're the only one to catch him.





	Party Girls Don't Get Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by Sia's "Chandelier" (thanks WriteAnon for snagging that one!). It takes place a few weeks after the events in The Thief, The Spider, and The Hotel. You won't need to have read that, however, to enjoy this piece.
> 
> As a side note, I should clarify the nature of drug overdose is pretty serious, and I approach this from a "creative liberty" standpoint. In other words, let professionals handle an OD.
> 
> That said, I hope you enjoy!

**Party Girls Don’t Get Hurt**

Sometimes, we’re nothing but our habits. Sometimes, the trapdoor of _ourselves_ swings open, and we fall in.

You’ve managed to hold it together since the “events.” You’ve worked on yourself, you’ve shifted your perspective – or at least made an effort to. You don’t look at the others in the Hotel as obstacles anymore. They’re your friends. They’re your family. And you’ll protect what belongs to you, so long as your fetid soul draws breath.

And then there’s Angel Dust.

Precious thing. The only person you really, genuinely love in this whole god forgotten realm. He’s the reason you’re here. The reason you’re at the Hotel, the reason you’re _alive._ His very proximity is enough to drive you mad, fill you with vigor and need and lust and want. Your flesh, your mind, your _soul,_ it all aches for him, in the best possible way. He’s your best friend. You can confide in him anything. He’s always there for you. As far as you’re concerned, you belong to him.

That’s why, tonight, you’re giving him some space.

You have a _bit_ of a possessive streak. A jealous one, too. In your mortal life, the world validated you through thievery and violence – if you wanted something, take it. If something belonged to you, _it belonged to you._ Anyone crossing you was spitting on your face and encroaching on your territory. When you saw Angel with others, a part of you flinched, roiled over. Not exactly the healthiest mindset. You needed to change this, challenge it. The Hotel is your territory, and Angel belongs to you – a mantra haunting you since you first arrived – something you’re trying to shift away from. He isn’t a thing or a diamond to be owned, glamorous though he is.

But you can trust Angel. You want to. _You have to._ That’s why, for tonight, you’ve elected to stay behind, instead of joining him for a celebratory bender on the city. Not that drowning yourself in a limitless supply of alcohol doesn’t sound like the best, but you think Angel will feel better if he gets some solo time, gets back to a little of the old life. Once more, after the chaos of everything, you need your own time to think.

“Awww, you suuuuure?’

His coaxing tone is like a siren’s call. He can be snarky, and he can put it _on_ when he wants to. Right now, his voice was soft and full of promise.

You nod, leaning back in your desk seat. “I think I’ve had my fill of trouble. For now.”

Angel slides against your desk, crossing his legs as he sits on the edge. “Lame! Ain’t gonna’ be fun without ya’, pockets.”

You chuckle. “Now _that’s_ not true. I’m sure your mutual will compensate. Maybe even blow up a building or two.” 

As you understand it, Angel’s heading out with Cherri Bomb to one of their favorite dives, intending to – for lack of better word – _get fucking obliterated._ You were, at first, uncomfortable with the idea. Though you don’t look at Cherri as a “competitor” anymore (you stole the Apple, you proved your goddamn point) you know she’s a loose cannon. No doubt the cyclopean tart is all manner of vice and violence. Exposing Angel Dust to it might. . . wake something up? But, no, that’s you being possessive again. He needs to have fun. He deserves it. Yes, it’s technically interfering with his “therapy,” but him, along with _everyone,_ almost fucking died, so, he gets a pass on this one. Besides, Cherri would look after him. They wouldn’t get _too_ crazy.

“Hah!” snickers Angel. “What’s there to blow up?”

Ah, true. Pentagram City had suffered some damage since the “appearance.”

The spider sighs, fishing into his purse and flicking open his mini-mirror, giving his makeup a once over. He’s dawned his stylish _Valentino_ with the bold pink stripes, his usual look, but goddamn does he always pull it off. The way his haunches sort of press onto the wood fills you with hunger, and it’s hard not to just throw him on the desk and have a go. The perfume isn’t helping.

“Well, then, don’t start another gang war.”

He flicks you an amused glance, fluttering his eyes and snapping the mirror shut. “Ah, toots, I betcha’ even Penny is scorin’ some sauce! Nobody’s lookin’ for a fight. Probably. . .”

He dawns an “innocent” expression, making eyes at you, balling his hands together. “Don’t worry mister Anon! I’ll be good! I pwomise!”

You fight back a laugh, taking your hat and pushing it into his face. He bats it away playfully, snickering again.

“See!? I need my wingman!”

You raise your eyes. “Oh? You trying to score on the side?”

You’re joking but, you’re kind of not. While you don’t judge Angel for who he is – profession and all – you’re not sure if he’s “been” with clients since you two have been together, and the idea of someone else touching him fills you with a dark feeling. Not a jealous one either, something far, far worse. You push the notion aside.

He nudges you. “No, _babe!_ So I laugh at everythin’ you say, so you seem _funny._ And I can brag about how much you’re packin, hah!” His extra hands extend out in exaggeration.

Well, that’s mostly a lie too, but you appreciate the thought. He didn’t seem to mind your comment, at any rate.

“We’ll brag about my uh, _size,_ next time. For now. . .”

Angel sighs, hopping off the desk. “Yeah, yeah, playin’ it straight and borin’. Ya’ want your bible when you go to bed too, Father Anon?”

You smirk. “If it has pictures of you, sure.”

He winks, coming around the table to lean, pressing his soft, warm lips into your cheek. “Mwah!”

His hands cup your face, those wide, genuine eyes consuming you. “All right then. If ya wanna’ be a fuddy duddy I won’t stop you. But I’ll miss ya!”

Another kiss, your mouths pressing together. Again, the world melts away for just a bit. A feeling of safety and warmth takes hold. When you break, you grant him one more bess.

“Better hurry, or you won’t make it out the door with your clothes on.”

He grants a dark grin, patting your face. “Atta’ boy.”

You stand, hugging him, escorting the spider. You go with Angel down the Hotel stairs from the room hallways, meeting at the entrance door. He’ll be taking a cab to and from, back late. Provided he doesn’t try to drive over a crowd, or something. You’ll be waiting, anyway. When the cab arrives you grant him _just_ one more kiss (promise), waving him off. He’s back to the bowels of Pentagram City, his natural habitat of chaos.

Angel, for Devil’s sake, don’t set something on fire.

When you return inside, you hear voices, timid chatter of the other Hotel denizens in one of the main rooms. Seeing as how you’re lacking in company for the evening, you figure a little socialization couldn’t hurt. Not like you were planning some new grand heist – though the urge to mediate over some blueprints is pretty alluring. . .

No, no. For now you go to the room, where everyone, apparently, is hanging out. Alastor is standing, tapping a massive whiteboard which has several scribbles on it.

“. . .and so I attest, presentation is everything! You don’t want your guests to think we aren’t taking this seriously, Miss Magne!” he said, malicious, static-coated voice set to _I-won’t-kill-you-right-now._

Charlie was sitting too, hands folded in front of her, thinking. Vaggie was next to her, arms crossed, no doubt keeping a steady eye on the Radio Demon. Husk looked surly (as usual), and Niffty was practically bouncing in her seat, single eye darting in rapid fashion.

Alastor stopped when he saw you approach.

“Ah, sorry,” you say as a few heads turn. “Am I interrupting?”

Alastor spreads his arms wide. “On the contrary! Just the young man I wanted to see!”

Your soul shivers. Even though Alastor lost out on the prospect of the _Saint’s Arm_ – meaning his “plans” are probably stalled – he still gives you the creeps. His pleasantness is. . . refreshing, but it’s like a shadow pretending to be light.

Charlie and Vag offer a wave and you nod your head.

“We’re discussing Hotel roles and plans!” Charlie chimed, offering a genuine smile. She looked happy. Her flowing blonde hair practically glowed. Perhaps the notion of getting the Hotel up and running got her excited.

“Oh?” you say, taking a seat next to Husk.

Vaggie cut in. “We’re uh, not fully staffed. And we need all the help we can get.”

“Quite right!” Alastor said, clapping his hands together. “Speaking of, we’re short an arm or four! Where’s everyone’s favorite sarcastic silk-slinger?”

Everyone looks at you.

You hesitate. “He’s uh. . . out.”

Husk grumbles and Niffty swings upside down.

“I’m not cleaning up after him this time!” she chitters.

Alastor puts his hand on chest. “Oh dear! May he have mercy on the city. Well! Matters for later. But you’re here, my dear boy, which is perfect timing!”

He tapped the whiteboard behind him. On it are names of the residents, and next to it what appear to be roles. Husk, for instance, is the bookkeeper. Charlie the administrator, Niffty maid, Vaggie “assistant,” and there’s your name.

_Anon: Security(?)_

“There’s no Broadway show without the actors, I think you’ll agree! We’ve got our headliners, but we’re one short in the supporting cast.”

His finger prods your name, and you blink. Security?

“I. . . are you serious?”

Charlie tilts her head, and Alastor looks amused. You raise your hands.

“You can’t be real. You want _me_ as security?”

Charlie adopts a pleasant tone. “Why not, Anon? You’re perfect for the role.”

“How!?” you blurt out.

There’s an. . . uncomfortable silence. Everyone looks away, Vaggie coughs, Husk smirks, fighting back a chortle, and even Alastor appears tickled.

“Suppose I’ll point out the rather large elephant in the room!” he says. “You were a criminal, Anon!”

Though he says it with all the charm and wit of a Vaudeville playboy, it stings to hear it. Yes. Yes you were.

He continues. “You know the ins and out of what makes a vagabond tick. Why, your antics brought down one of the biggest casinos in the city! A man who can break security will _know_ its weaknesses.”

There seems to be no escape from your sins. Unfortunately, though, Alastor is right – for the most part. You know how to pull off a smash and grab or organize a complex robbery. You know where cameras tend to hide and how to snare something from someone’s pockets. You know the body language of someone intending to commit theft or violence. You know weak spots, how to hide in plain sight. Because you’re that person. Or you used to be (you hope).

“Since we’ve got to get the souls in Hell ship shape, we’re inviting all sorts of unknowns to our little get together,” adds Alastor.

“It’s dangerous,” pipes in Vaggie. She looks at you. “But you know dangerous.”

“Anon,” starts Charlie, voice warm and soothing. “It’s a lot to drop on you at once, so, you don’t _have_ to answer right now. But the responsibility we be good for you, don’t you agree?”

“She’s right!” says Alastor with an enthusiastic arm swing. “Our safety would be in _your_ hands!

Husk frowns. “I mean, ya’ did almost kill us, Annie. But technically, you saved us too.”

“I offered first!” buzzes Niffty. “But my plan was to stab all the new guests!”

It’s all hitting you like a knockout punch. What it means, what you’d have to do. _Can_ you even do it? No, no it’s not a question of _can_ you do it, but can you be _trusted_ with it. This isn’t like hanging out at the door or hiring a bouncer. If they were serious, you’d have to get serious too. It’s trust. It’s too much.

“I’d have to see a layout of the hotel,” you stammer, hoping this might put them off. “I’d. . . I’d need blueprints, access to almost every room, I. . .”

Charlie cuts in. “We trust you.”

Fuck. Why did she say that? Why did she use _that_ word?

“You’d be protecting everyone,” Alastor throws in. “Frankly, I’d sleep better knowing you were watching our backs, hohoho!”

You stare at the Radio Demon. He’s being real. _Earnest._ You’ve spent enough time with him, and people _like_ him, to sense bullshit, but that toothy grin-stretched face wasn’t fucking around.

You wanted to protect them, you thought it yourself. This was your home, and this was your family.

“Can I have some time?” you say to Charlie. She beams.

“Of course! We know you’ll make the right decision.”

You already have.

Alastor chuckles, writing on the board. “Well! Let’s put our contemplating comrade down as a maybe! In the meantime, stick around Anon!”

“Oh, please do,” says Charlie. “We were talking about the best way to open the Hotel!”

Well, not like you’ve got anything better to do. The notion of heading hotel security is still hitting you like a fresh wound, and all it entails. Because of it, you’d have access to potentially everything. Every room, wall, crack and crevice. The shifting brick entrance at the building side, storage, closets. . . maybe a vault. You clenched your hand as Alastor continued from his previous point, mentioning something about suits and radio programs and whatever. You’re shifting in and out of focus. Protect what belongs to you, says a voice. Then there’s another, one you don’t want to hear.

_Imagine what’s inside this place._

You just wish Angel Dust was with you. He’d have some quip or snarky phrase to help take the weight off. Hopefully, he wasn’t getting into too much trouble.

-*-

“SHOTS!”

Glasses clink against the raucous of booming music and flashing lights. Angel threw back the harsh, burning liquid, his old partner in crime doing the same, wiping her lips and wearing a manic, excited grin.

“Fuck yeah, four down!” she hoots, sitting back in her cushioned seat. There’s a fresh bottle of _Violent Red_ between her and Angel, along with a family of eight empty glasses. The spider gasps, smiling like the devil, his head clouded by a pleasant buzz.

“You haven’t missed a step, you fancy-ass bitch!”

Angel Dust hacked with laughter, looking _proud._ How could he not? He was on the fucking scene again! Everyone gawked when he and his bestie came swaggering in, flirting and flipping people off. The rush, the sweet hot black rush of the attention, the energy, the _respect,_ it was overwhelming. Hell, a seductive wink to the bartender and they had a bottle of Hell’s finest, _on the house._ Demons from every part of the West Side came up to Cherri to compliment on a job well done giving Sir Pentious the metaphorical dirty dick, while others even wanted Angel’s autograph.

For instance, a fan approached, holding one of Angel’s first skin photos like an excited child. “I’m s-such a HUGE fan! You have no idea Dustie! I still have _‘Angel Dust (On Your Dick)’_ and _Legs in Lace!”_

Angel chuckled. “Awww, what a classic! I loved _Lace!_ Ya’ know we used all natural lightin’ for that one? Real proud of it.”

He signed the pictorial, scooted the demon off (much to their jubilation), before taking another celebratory swig. Fuck, _this was the good shit._ This is how it was, in the old days. Making a name for himself as a criminal extraordinaire with all the booze and blow Angel could stomach – which was _a lot._

“Wow,” said Cherri, getting comfortable. “Pretty generous, Angie. Used to be you’d charge fifty a pop for one of those.”

Angel Dust shrugged, his pair of extra limbs reclining on the cushion edges. “Ehh, what can I say. Feelin’ generous tonight! Gotta’ give love to the fans!”

He winked and clicked his teeth.

Cherri started pouring herself another glass. “Amen to that!” She knocked it back, giving a giddy shiver.

“Seems like you’ve been extra sweet on _one_ for a while, huh?”

Angel’s smile faltered. Just a little.

“Hah, what do ya' mean?”

Cherri didn’t respond at once, rather grabbed a baggie and tossed it on the table, filled with sparkling white powder.

“Oh, you know! Must be a fuck of a client, legs! You hardly come around anymore, and I hear you’re hangin’ off some spook in a suit. Props, guy must be _loaded!”_

For a brief moment, Angel remembered, snapped out of the euphoria of club noise and attentive eyes. Oh. Shit. Uh, how to answer that? He still had a reputation. Demons still knew him as _Angel fucking Dust._ He hadn’t been on the streets causing such havoc since he and Cherri gave the tube-steak a four-armed bitch slap. Did they even know he was committed?

Clearly not, or Cherri wouldn’t have asked. But he could tell her, couldn’t he? About going steady and all. She wouldn’t judge him. . . would she?

The noise washed over him again, the adoration, the alcohol. And, as Cherri, opened the baggy - parsing a smooth line on a gold tray - _drugs._ The good kind, not the cheap vending machine bullshit or stuff you yanked off a street plug. Primo quality they passed on for high-level clientele. She did her line with enthuse and ease, the coke high hitting her almost at once. She nudged the tray to him, expectant.

He hesitated, though attempted to keep demeanor casual. Part of him wanted to politely decline but, how’d that come off to everyone? Shit. That blow was lookin’ extra fucking good too, along with all the adoration, the energy, the vitality of the night. . . part of him missed it. A big part, in fact. Keeping your nose clean was really, _really_ fucking hard. He had the West Side under this thumb for years and suddenly it all changed. Now, the reality of his new life collided with the old.

The trapdoor swung open.

He flicked out a knife, sneered, and cut an extra thick line of white for himself, snorting it down instantly, setting blade aside.

“Ahhhh _shit!”_ he hollered, hitting the table with his fists. It was like someone plugged him full of hot electricity – _everything_ felt good now.

“Hell yeah, tits! You better b’lieve I snagged a sugar daddy,” he said, finding a new purchase of raw vitality.

It’s okay if he lied, right? Just a little. The streets didn’t need to know. And it wasn’t like he was ashamed! No, no of course not! Yeah, not at all! This was just one more go, just one more hit of the sweet stuff, then he was on the straight and narrow, yeah! What’s the harm? He’d been good for a while. . . mostly. And besides, Anon wanted him to have fun! This was fine, everything was fine.

Cherri’s single eye widened, interested. “No shit? Damn, Angie. Usually you’re on your fourth dick before the day’s end. Does he piss money or something?”

The reserved part of Angel, the part holding together a fragment of common sense, voiced caution.

_Ey, smart guy, don’t go yappin’ about Anon and the Hotel. Keep it all Silence of the Lambs like._

_That don’t make any sense!_

_Hey! It’s got silence in it, fuck boy. You know what I mean!_

The other part however:

_BRAG ABOUT YOUR BIG DICK BOYFRIEND AND ALL THE SHIT HE’S DONE!_

He pulled at his bowtie, dawning a smug expression. “My man? Cracked the _Sugary Chigurh_ like a fucking toybox!”

At once, Cherri boggled. “Whaaaaat? No way. You’re lying. You’re a lying slut!”

_Alright Angle, foot off the gas fella’, that caused a lot of trouble, remember. . ._

_FUCK THAT, SHOW YOUR MAN OFF LIKE A FUCKING ROLEX!_

He leaned, grinning wildly. “Sure as I suck dick, babe, I got that one slippin’ me hundies on the reg. He breathes cash, ya’ get me?”

Cherri slapped her head, roiling with laughter. “Oh my shit, you gold digging whore. I can’t believe it. _The_ guy who rolled that shitshack. You know how to pick em'!”

She poured another pair of shots for herself and Angel. The spider snagged his with greedy enthuse, tossing it down. He was in it now, the storm of himself. Burying it all down, drowning it, drowning the new self, the new life.

“H-hah! You bet!” he laughed, voice catching. Whore? But he wasn’t. . .

Cherri snickered. “Well that explains you dodgin’ the skinema scene! Guess I can’t blame you, though.”

She looked around in the sea of dark bodies, all washed with flashing neon colors, writhing to the beats of some _okay_ dance music.

“Think your boy would get his nuts in a twist if we scored an easy fuck? Some of these mad-lads are sportin’ howitzers, Angie. Your kinda’ guy. I’m sure mister good times can’t be _that_ big!”

At first, Angel’s besieged mind didn’t quite process what she meant. He was too wound up. But slowly, the words seeped in.

A dark, tempting thrill swept through him. That was the old stuff too – snagging a one night lay for a quick romp. Didn’t matter who, as long as they were willing. It would be kinda nice to. . .

Even in this downpour of liquor and hard drugs and noise and lights, the reasonable piece of him _screamed._

_Don’t you **fuckin’** dare, wise guy._

Yeah, no. A hundred times no. Sex work was one thing, but having some rando? Even that was a crossing a line for Angel’s already generous moral geometry. Whore he may have been, but he’d never, _ever_ do anything to hurt his thief. Damn. He wished he was here right now. . .

“Naw! No can do!” Angel piped up, wiping off excess white from his face, sniffing. “Sorry babe! Loyalty clause. And I’m a good boy for my sugar daddy.”

There. At least he could keep his Anon _and_ his reputation. Even if he had to lie.

Cherri cackled. “Hah! All right, all right. You’re a professional slut, I’ll give ya that.”

Phew. There’s power in a persona, and Angel was none too eager to let go of his, especially since it commanded so much goddamn respect. But it meant he had to play the part of trigger-happy porn star, ready to drop lace at the sign of a fat stack of bills. And, that wasn’t. . . a good feeling these days. Something about it twisted a knot in his chest. A strange, unfamiliar sensation he hadn’t experienced in, well, decades, if ever. If he was with a client in the sparse few times he’d hit a “job,” all he could imagine was his thief. He just pretended the hands, the sensations, the motions were his Anon. He didn’t want to pretend. He wanted the genuine article.

“Oooh!”

Cherri chimed, excited, waving an arm. Angel looked to the source of her new enthusiasm. A well-dressed succubus approached, setting down another gold tray with a smile, and on it were. . . syringes.

Angel blinked, and his smile faltered again.

“What’s that?” he asked innocently.

Cherri looked the devil. She didn’t answer, just snagged one of the syringes and gave it a lustful look.

“Are you ready to get fucking _annihilated!?”_

Clearly, she meant this to be rhetorical.

Oh, fuck. Okay, hang on, he was five, six shots in? And a line of high-quality blow? Okay, fine, fine, he’d been on benders before. This was manageable, right?

_S’posed to be gettin clean._

_SUPPOSED TO BE HAVIN FUN!_

Hang on, just hang the fuck on. This was getting intense. Normally, Angel capped this off with a nice, hard gangbang or something equally as raunchy to make him forget what was even happening - justifying the drug use. He’d just. . . let himself go, fall into the vortex of experience, because he wanted to feel _all_ of it. In the early days. In the days when he wanted to indulge every desire, every lust, and every want. But things change. He was changing. R-right? He had someone now. What would that someone say if he saw this? Once more, this wasn’t the early days – and he wasn’t about to meet a half dozen fellas “in the back.”

_He’d want ya’ to go for it!_

Was that. . . true? He didn’t forget their conversations from before, on that night Anon - the lovable fuckin’ idiot - blurted out his feelings. Who were they trying to be better for, Anon said. Anon loved him, for all his problems and imperfections. Anon wouldn't get mad about this. Right?

But _still._ This didn’t. . . this was going pretty far. . .

Cherri pat the cushion next to her. “Hey! Get over her, bitch! Let’s get this track rollin’!”

Angel’s heart was racing, but not from the blow.

He fell. He fell into the abyss of himself and there was no one to catch him, no one to hold onto.

“Don’t start the races without me, babe,” sneered Angel, sitting next to his partner in crime.

Tightness around the arms. Needle in the vein. A rush, a dark, violent, euphoric rush.

Time for the angel to sprout his wings and fly, fly like tomorrow never existed.

-*-

A wisp of smoke snaked through the air. You take a long, heavy drag, trying to settle your nerves. A flick. The cig hits the ground, and you stamp it out, next to a pile of its used brethren. You don’t normally touch the shit, but goddamn, you’re almost through the pack. The demonic nicotine doesn’t settle your anxious nerves and your lungs certainly don’t thank you, but it’s all you have to cope. Your single right eye gazes out into the forest of Pentagram City from the Hotel’s roof, its noisy ambiance filled with sirens, horns, music, chatter, and all manner of chaos. Somewhere, Angel was out in it. _And he still wasn’t back._

It was well beyond a reasonable hour, even for a “celebration.” The others had retired to their quarters, if not sleeping already. In the meantime, you’re kicking yourself. Fuck. Fuck! It was _stupid_ to stay behind, absolutely stupid. You should’ve gone. You could’ve kept an eye on him. Devil knew what he was getting up to now! You should’ve _gone._ Watched him, watched your Angel, kept him safe, contro-

Controlled? Whoa, whoa, what were you thinking? That’s not how this works. He wasn’t a thing for you to boss around. That was the whole reason you _didn’t_ tag along, to prove to yourself you trusted him. That he could take care of himself.

_But he’s precious to me._

So he is.

_And if he’s precious, he should be protected. Like a diamond in a vault._

But he’s not a _diamond,_ he’s a person. Well, an effeminate, foul mouthed arachnid demon, but still a person.

_But he’s **mine!**_

He is, but he isn’t.

_What if he’s hurt? What if someone’s hurting him?_

Are you kidding? Your Angel has a purse filled with day-strength lip gloss and fucking hand grenades, he’ll be fine.

_. . .and what if someone’s touching him?_

You trust him that little?

God, FUCK. You paced. You hated this. Adding to your mental strain was the prospect of heading security. If that was the case, shit performance already, because one of the residents was unaccounted for. Dammit, Angel. Wait, no, not Angel. You didn’t believe it was his fault – you refused. It was that demonette, that mono-eyed lunatic with a thirst for destruction, Cherri Bomb. Had to be. She was from his life of dark impulses, no doubt brought out the worst in him.

_Yeah, but, he can make his own decisions too._

Shut up.

You lit another cig, helpless. Sleep was starting to call you, fatigue setting in, but you’d be damned if you went to bed and you didn’t know where Angel was.

After what felt like a few dozen eons, a distant cab rumbled into view. Small and black, pinkish city-hues washing over it, the vehicle slid up to the Hotel entrance. Your heart caught. That _had_ to be Angel! You stamped the cig and bolted downstairs, making it to the building front before the damn cab door even opened. It wasn’t because you were fast, though. No, as the door shoved open, someone wobbled out, movements hindered, a voice calling after him. An empty glass bottle or _six_ fell out with the shaky silhouette.

“See yaaaaaa, biiiiitch!” said the voice, harsh and feminine. Slurred too, incredibly so.

“Next time, slut, next time,” said the figure. Angel. And by “said,” you meant the words sort of meshed together like chewed food.

Watching Angel take a step, he essentially collapsed, struggling to move, howling with laughter. He fished into his purse for something – a wad of cash – and threw it at the driver in a sloppy rain of bills. Your heart went cold. Holy shit that was _bad._ You’ve seen Angel go through a row of drugs, alcohol, the whole nine yards, and usually he took it pretty well. Doing that for a few decades built up one hell of a tolerance. 

“Nnfrmf,” he mumbled, trying to push himself up, only to fall again.

This? This was something else entirely. You rushed to him. “Angel!” you snapped, hoisting him up, forcing his arm around your shoulder. He didn’t even _grip_ you, it was like he lost all sense of himself.

“Ooooo fuuuuuck, that your suuuugar daddy?” cooed Cherri, leaning out of the cab.

Angel Dusk blinked, _slowly,_ looking at you, only to just realize someone was holding him. “Nnuh? O-oh. Ohhhh yeaaaaah!”

He pats your cheek weakly. “Heeeeey poockeets.”

You stare at his eyes – normally portals you find so much comfort in, now dilated, bloodshot, and out of focus. Your heart races, and you glare at his counterpart. As you suspected, it’s Cherri.

“Leave,” you hiss.

Cherri ignores you. “Saaame time next week, bitch?”

Angel tries to flip her off, tries to smirk, but it doesn’t pan out. “Sure!” he slurs.

Oh, **fuck that.**

You kick the cab door closed. “LEAVE.”

You think you hear a series of muffled curses, but the cab starts to sputter off, Angel waving after it. He looks back to you, or maybe looks _passed_ you, he’s all over the place.

“Heey, why’d ya do thaaaat?”

You look at him, blank. You don’t know what you want to feel. Enraged? Terrified? He’s way, way off. You’ve seen mobsters a few feet over you OD, and Angel was _right there,_ right on the edge. Demon physiology probably worked different, since one didn’t experience “true death” down here unless it was holy in nature. But it meant Angel was just swimming in it, in the cocktail of himself. You see one of his arms, the sleeve rolled up, a few tiny red bruises next to each other, like bites.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Angel,” you say, shaken.

“Wow,” he mumbles, one of his arms waving past you. “H-how’d ya’ do that? There’s like twelve of ya!”

“What!?” You looked around.

Was he seeing double? No, he was fucking _beyond_ double now.

You need to start getting the poison out, _now._ You don’t have fancy equipment, or supplies, just yourself. It’ll have to do.

“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” you say, pulling him to the entrance. You carry him to one of the "not really alive" bushes, since it's out of the way. Angel hardly keeps up.

“Hey, h-hah, slow down!”

He’s like a newborn deer. When his brain says ‘walk,’ his legs say ‘no.’

All the poison running through him will take its toll, so you need to cycle it out. Normally, a hospital would put you on detox, but it was fucking Hell, hospitals weren’t exactly common around here. Instead, you press your fingers together, pushing at his mouth.

“Open,” you command. He’s amused, doesn’t understand, sort of makes a weird sucking motion, fluttering his eyes at you. It's. . . morbid how he automatically snaps to that - someone could take advantage of this.

“Nheheh, kiiinky,” he says, grinning. You’re not fucking around, though. You jam your fingers hard, back into his throat, or as far as you can go. You need him to gag, make him wretch, hopefully rip out of some of the garbage swimming in his body, then rehydrate him.

When he realizes what you’re _not_ doing something sexual, he sputters, trying to push you off. “Nff! Stop! F-fuck off!”

You know, Angel, you know, goddammit. You hate this, but you have to do something. He tries to move his head but, you can’t let him, you have to force it. When you shove into his throat, he starts to hack, a rupture of ugly noises coming from him. His face scrunches and he grabs his stomach, leaning, and. . . well, vomiting.

He whines and wretches, and you hold him while he “sorts” through it. Not the prettiest sight, but you’ll take this over him not opening his eyes at all. When he finishes, he weakens, having difficulty standing, so you keep him supported, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping his mouth clean.

“You f-fuckin prick!” he croaks. Another string of insults follows, jumbled together. “Cocksuckingdicklessassholefuckmotherpieceofshit!”

You don’t care. Whatever it takes. You lead him on, quietly getting him inside – or doing your best aside from Angel’s complaints. You don’t want to bring anyone else into this, don’t want them to see “typical Angel” in this state. Partly, because you want to believe _you_ can fix this, on your own. So, you head upstairs, taking slow, careful steps.

“Come on,” you say, tugging him. Despite his swearing, he’s holding onto you. “Come on.”

As you take each step it’s like climbing a mountain. Several times, Angel trips and nearly falls on himself, and you have to do everything you can to get him to his room. By the time you reach the gauche door, he’s groaning again, but not in the pleasant sense.

“It hurts,” he mutters, weak. You shove the door open, looking at him.

“What? What hurts Angel? Tell me. Where does it hurt?”

He doesn’t look coherent. “E-everywhere!”

That sends about 3000 volts of pure _panic_ shooting through you, but you have to stay calm. If you lose it here, you’re doing him no good. Be strong for him, because he’s drowning, and you’re the only lifeline.

He wobbles again, trying to push off you. “Gonna be sick. . .”

Another horrid groan and you get him to the bathroom as quick as possible. His body, again, rejects whatever the fuck he’s put in himself, and you let things take their course, horrible as it is. You keep an eye on him, his frame shaking, while Fat Nuggets appears from the corner, oinking with concern. The moment the pig sees his owner in this “state,” he squeaks and hides. Probably for the best. Angel was hitting rock bottom and drilled right through the cracks.

It takes him a bit before he finishes. The spider probably popped a few dozen pills just for the fuck of it, and surprise, it didn’t sit well. Did he even eat? Not by the looks of things. You flush the vomit and get him to his bed, _carefully,_ sure to keep him on his side. His eyes are still swerving around, and you don’t know how well he can focus.

“Angel,” you say, leaning next to the bed. “Angel! Do you know where you are?”

He flinches and sort of crumples up. “Stooop taaaalking!”

You ignore this. “What’s my name?” you say.

He grumbles. “Piss off Anon!”

All right, he’s not so goddamn obliterated he’s lost everything, thank the Devil. Despite his protests, you check his pulse, note his breathing. It’s not good, certainly irregular, but he’s still conscious. If he blacked out, you don’t know if you could snap him out of it.

He mumbles again, clenching his teeth, holding himself. There’s. . . not much you can immediately do. Giving him water right now would just make things worse, but he’d have to rehydrate soon. Food wasn’t an option, probably not until morning, if then. Pain meds were out of the question.

You straightened, looking at him. He was starting to shiver, and you’d never felt so powerless. Watching your lover suffer like this, unable to do much, except watch. Goddammit. A dark feeling blossomed in you. Unfamiliar. Like rage, but worse, so much worse. You clenched your fist so hard you drew blood. Who did this!? Who hurt your Angel!?

_He did this to himself; you know that._

Shut the fuck up.

_No. He made his decisions. And you didn’t go with him._

Shut. Up.

_If anyone is really to blame, though, it’s you. It’s always you. You could've stepped in. But you didn't._

. . .

You can fix this.

_You can fix this._

“Gggh,” Angel grunts, snagging your attention. “A-a-anon. . .”

You reach for him. “What? Angel, what is it? Tell me, _please.”_

He makes another noise, hard to understand. “Idon’twannafall. . .”

What?

You grab his shoulder, squeezing. “What do you mean, Angel?”

“I don’t wanna fall!”

You’re looking around. Devil, please don’t be hallucinating. “You’re not falling,” you say, calm as you can. “Angel, baby, you’re right here, you’re not falling.”

“I don’t wanna look down!”

You blink. “Then don’t.”

He manages to snag you, practically pulling you in with a vice grip, all four arms held around you, tight. His face his buried in your shoulder, and you feel him shake and quiver, a timid branch in a harsh winter storm.

He repeats himself, over and over. Doesn’t want to look down. All you can do is comfort him, get him through it, like he’s done with you so many times. He’s okay. He’ll be okay. You know why? Because he’s right here, in your arms, and as long as there’s that, nothing will hurt him. Not even himself. You promise.

“Shhhh,” you hush. “Shhh. You’re right here. You’re home. You’re not falling.”

Whatever episode he’s experiencing doesn’t dissipate quickly, because he’s hanging off you like rust on iron _._ You return the embrace – though not enough to cause pain, just comfort. You stroke his back, his head fluff, anywhere you think he might need it.

“I c-can’t look down. . .” he mutters, trembling. You’re not sure what he means, or what he’s seeing. Devil only knows what he must feel like, how detached his mind is from the rest of himself. Few moments ago, he was probably flying high, high into the blood red sky, and now came the fall, fast and unrelenting. You’re here to catch him.

It carries on for a while, maybe an hour, but his panicked musing starts to settle. Doesn’t mean he’s in the clear, not at all. His grip loosens, and you feel okay setting him on his side, watching him like a hawk. It’s late, and your body is _screaming_ for rest, but you aren’t going anywhere. His eyelids are closed, and he starts to shiver, teeth chattering. Shit, what now?

His breath hastens and he sounds like someone dropped him in a tub of ice. Is he cold? You reach out to touch him, but, that’s never an accurate method to take a temperature. Fuck. You think you understand – he’s running a fever now.

He starts to go for his blanket, but you have to stop him. The body tricks itself with fevers, forcing one to shake and shiver like they’re cold, but in reality, their temperature jumps. If he wraps himself up he’ll overheat.

“No no, no, we need to get you out of these,” you say, gentle, referring to his clothes.

“I’m cold!” he whines, like he’s in pain.

You nod, saddened. “I know, Angel, I know.”

You lift him up once more, forcing him to sit. “I have to get this off, all right?” You gesture to his Valentino.

“But I’m fuckin’ f-freezing!” he protests, still shaking. Fuck, you wish you could give him something for it, but any drug touching his body is the last thing he needs. Demon physiology aside, he’s in a delicate state.

“You’re not,” you say. “You’re running a fever. I can’t let you overheat.”

You go for his bowtie, and then buttons to his suit. “Spread your arms.”

He resists at first, not really moving, but you’re able to nudge him out of it. You’re able to get the suit top off without much trouble, ruffling his hair fluff in the process. He’s wearing a lace bra, oddly enough, so you need to unclip that too.

You kneel, get his kinky boots and leggings off, gentle as you can be. All the while he’s still a shivering, chattering mess. When he’s bare, aside from some panties, he’s never looked so fragile. His gaze is distant, eyes wandering, frame quivering, holding himself with all four arms. He whimpers, falling on his back, but you shift him back to his side.

“Stay on your side,” you say. “How’s your stomach?”

“Told you I’m FUCKIN’ COLD!” he growls back. Well, it’s an improvement. More wretching means he could asphyxiate on himself. And he’s miserable, you don’t blame him. So, again, you watch and wait – the only thing you can do. It’s horrifying. You sit on the floor, back to his bed’s edge, haunted by his groans, his shivering, his utterances of pain. But. . . he’s listening to you, at least.

Your body demands you sleep, roars at you to close your eyes and rest. But you have no intention of going anywhere. You’re not moving, period, not until he’s better.

-*-

How much time passed? You don’t even know. You’ve checked on Angel every fifteen minutes or so, slowly noting how the shivering ceases. At a certain point, he’s calmed, but only just so, and his frame is covered in sweat. The fever is breaking, thank fuck, but doubtful he’s been able to rest.

“Angel,” you whisper, standing. His black sclera trails to you. It’s not dilated. Thank goodness. But he doesn’t say anything.

You touch his forehead and it’s damp from fever. After all the vomiting, he needs to rehydrate. Now looks to be an okay time for water.

“Thirsty?” you offer. He gives a weak, timid nod.

“Okay,” you say, holding out an arm. “Let’s get you something to drink.”

“Can I wear somethin’,” he croaks, voice dry and coarse. Oh, right. The fever subsided, so you think he’ll be okay. You nod.

You don’t know shit about his preferred wardrobe, but you parse through his _armada_ of clothing in _one_ of his dresser closets. All of it’s too fancy and heavy, save for a single pink robe. That’ll do. You help him get it on, then lead him out the door, keeping an eye on him. He’s at least got stability now, though his head is downcast, face flushing, but not from makeup. None of this is fun for him. Nobody wants to feel like this, helpless in their own flesh, so weak they need someone to help them walk around.

But you’re not judging him. You’re here with him, every step of the way.

You reach the dark kitchen and sit him down, keeping the lights off. A glass of water is about all he can manage right now, anything else is dangerous. You pour it with some ice, hand it to him, and he just looks at it, pouting.

“Angel. Drink.”

He looks away. “I don’t want it. I don’t like water.”

You sigh. “I can’t _spike_ it, so _please_ , drink.”

When he doesn’t move, you put it a straw in it. “Now?”

Conceding, he slowly takes the glass in both hands, extra limbs sagging on the side, trying a sip. A small one, but a sip nonetheless. You sit next to him, bothering to check the time. Fucking hell, it’s 5:28.

But you’re relieved. Angel has weathered _some_ of the storm. He can drink now, and that’s a big improvement, though you’ll have to watch him for the rest of the night – or, morning at this point. Until he sleeps and until he wakes.

He sips some more, then his gaze slowly comes to you. His expression is sad, regretful, mascara and eyeliner blotchy.

“Pockets,” he mutters, weak. “I fucked up. . .”

The literal last thing you want him to do is blame himself. Not him. Not your Angel.

“I don’t care what happened,” you say. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

He can’t meet your gaze. He looks ashamed, regretful. But you’re not here to judge him, nor will you ever. No one is perfect, least of all _you._ Angel saw you, flaws and greed and problems, and only looked at the good. You owe him as much, not that your heart would ever let you do otherwise.

“But. . .”

You grimace. “Angel, it’s all right. I promise.”

You should’ve gone, you see it plain as day. You’re supposed to _protect_ him.

He won’t let up, though. “Please? Can I tell you?”

Your fist clenches. A part of you doesn’t _want_ to know. You’re afraid of what he might say, that someone _else_ touched him, or how far he went. Like the _old_ days. Profession aside, that thought is disturbing you more than it should, waking up feelings in you that aren’t comfortable. New ones. Like something’s getting prodded, worked up.

But if you think like that, you’re demonstrating well enough you don’t trust him, and you have to, even if it’s hard. Even after all this.

“I’d rather you rest,” you say. “But okay.”

He takes another timid sip, then explains. Explains, voice exhausted, how things got out of control. How the world out there took hold of him, the old exciting life came back with nostalgic feelings and it was too hard to resist. And he’s telling you this because he wants to be better. He’s trying. Even after this fall, he knows he went too far, he sees the consequences.

He wasn’t with anyone - and you're relieved. No reason for him to lie. But, even with his honesty, the response frightens you. Not _because_ he’s honest, but because of what it means. You once told Angel you loved him for all his imperfections, and you still do. That whatever he decided, you were with him. But now? He couldn’t keep doing that, couldn’t play with the fire of his old life. He still wanted to be better, and it meant _you_ needed to be as well.

You pushed him into this. You encouraged him to sample the wine of the city’s chaos. You weren’t there when you should’ve been.

You can never do that again.

The pieces of yourself, the insecure, greedy animals, they bristle. This old you has to go. You have responsibilities now. You’re Hotel Security. You love Angel.

 _No one will respect you for that,_ says a voice. _None of them. You know what happens when you expose your chest._

You don’t have an answer.

“I’m tired,” says Angel, eyelids flicking open and shut.

It snaps you out of your mental whinging, so you escort him back to his room, getting him comfortable again. He seems to have settled, for the most part, but, you have to be sure. With the fever gone, you figure it’s all right to tuck him into the covers, though if he has another “episode” you’ll have to shift him so he doesn’t suffocate on his own bile.

You make sure he’s comfortable, kissing his cheek. When you get his head under a pillow, he gives you a wide-eyed look.

“Don’t leave.”

You shake your head. “Not going anywhere.”

You sit in a chair, bedside, so you’re within his sight. You notice his gaze doesn’t leave you, not until his eyelids finally drift shut.

-*-

 

“Urgh.”

Angel nurses his coffee with drained enthuse. His fingers rub his temple and he winces at any sound or motion, likely hit with a hangover the size of a fucking tank. You’re sharing a cup with him, the harsh black liquid dulling the _utter exhaustion_ drilling into your body. You haven’t slept and you don’t see yourself getting any for the rest of the day.

You brought him a mug, so you’re both in his room for now. For the best. He doesn’t need a lecture – it might throw him back into a relapse.

“Ya’ don’t have to stick around, Anon,” he says, noting your fatigue. You shrug.

“No can do, Angel. Head of Security now, it’s my job.”

He gives you a dry look. “Tell me that’s a fuckin’ joke.”

His snark his back. Thank the Devil.

You give a tired chuckle. “Afraid not. I’ll be keeping my _eye_ on you. And everyone.”

“This mean ya’ gonna frisk me every time I go in and out of the building?” He’s not smiling, but you sense a tinge of humor. A good sign.

“Yes sir, Mr. Dust. If I have a reason to, I’ll stop and search.’

You’re joking. Mostly.

He rubs his blotched eyes, snickering. “ _Tue-moi_.” That catches you off guard. His accent is. . . too perfect.

You blink. “Since when the fuck do you speak French!?”

“I don’t. But I know a few phrases. Drives a dick crazy.”

You admit, seeing a weathered Angel is doing things to you - topping it off with some French inspires wild feelings. But, he’s not well, so you nudge the impulse aside.

“So it does.”

A pregnant pause fills the room, only broken by the timid sips you and he take.

“Feeling better?” you finally say.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Not much to say on the affair – you suppose he’s doing everything to put it behind him. And, perhaps that’s for the best. He clearly feels guilty over it, and the hangover will be a grim reminder of going too far, much less the OD ordeal.

He grumbles at you. “If ya’ gonna’ stick around, at least come lie down. Can barely stand up straight.”

You want to decline. You have to be professional now. But shit, the pink fluff of his bed is _so_ inviting and the proximity of your lover is enough to counter _any_ logic. Standing is hard, everything his hard, like lead weight are clamped to your body. You concede, setting aside the mug and joining him, kicking off shoes.

He puts aside his drink too, pulling his knees to fluff chest. The way his shoulder exposes itself is all sorts of _unf,_ not to mention the way he looks at you. What a beautiful mess he is.

“I’m sorry, Anon,” he says. “For everything.”

You hold his hand. “Stop. No more of that. What’s done is done, and you’re safe now.”

He’s unsatisfied. “I’ll be better.”

You realize he’s not saying it so much to you as he is to himself. He’s been trying to get better since you knew him, and, in a way, you’ve fucked that up through your own manipulations and greed.

“We both will,” you say, making a promise.

You press in for a soft kiss, and your lips meet. It’s gentle, it’s tired, but it’s real and earnest. At least you both always have _this_. The company of each other, the fortress of your relationship, where neither judges, just makes their partner stronger.

You break and go quiet again, embracing the peace. After last night, Angel’s probably thankful for some distance between himself and the cacophony of Pentagram City.

In the quiet, though, you remember something. “Angel?”

“Nmm?”

You don’t want to stir things up, but, something’s been nagging at you.

“Do you know. . . well. You said something last night. You didn’t want to fall down. Did that mean anything?”

He doesn’t respond at once, musing. For a moment, you’re concerned you might’ve prodded too far – he’s recovering, after all.

But eventually, he shrugs.

“Guess I use to get so fuckin’ blasted I thought I wouldn’t make it through the night. Always felt like I was fallin’ when I did. Cherri would always pick my ass up though.”

Hmm. _Cherri._ It wasn’t your place to judge his friends, but. . . you were judging his friends.

“One time I stood on the edge of a buildin’, haha, I was so wasted, thought I was gonna’ fly. Guess I thought. . . I was doin’ it again last night. But I got scared. Dunno why. I just did.”

The visual of Angel Dust so out of his mind he tries something dangerous is instantly unsettling. It fills your chest with a dark cold. You put an arm around his waist, afraid he might suddenly do something brash.

“Ya’ don’t think anything can hurt ya’. You’re on top. Everyone loves you. Everyone wants to be around ya’. Know you.”

. . . you understand. The deep, voracious need to be known, respected, even feared. You longed for it in both life and death. You wanted everyone to look up and see you, _know_ you. You guess, technically, they did with Abaddon. But with Angel? Hell’s biggest adult star, one of their most infamous criminals. . . that’s a fuck of a lot to give up. Would you have been different, in the same environment? Given the chance to do things  _like the old days,_ where did you stand?

He chuckles. “I just wanted to believe, for one more night, I could take it, that I was my old self. Party girls ain’t supposed to get hurt, Anon.”

You nod. No, suppose they aren’t. But that wasn’t him anymore.

Angel got hurt, and bad. You won’t say it, but watching him OD scared the ever-loving shit out of you. That's not something, you think, you can ever bare to see again.

“Are you falling anymore?” you ask, squeezing his palm.

He manages to smile. “Naw.”

[He looks at you. “Somebody caught me.”](https://youtu.be/peEfMOm45E8)

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork belongs to their respective creator!


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